“But what does he mean?” asked Nancy; “he says that you—you are cruel to someone.” “Come back to the drawing-room with me, sweet Nance.” Rowton held out his hand; he clasped Nancy’s with a pressure which almost made her cry out; she bit her lips and walked by his side in silence. The drawing-room was the picture of comfort; Rowton sank down into a deep easy chair, and pulling Nancy towards him, seated her on his knee. “Now, my wild bird,” he said, “the curtain begins to lift; what do you think of your Adonis? do I begin to show the cloven hoof?” “No, no, no,” she said, a strangled sob in her throat, “but you frightened me; why did you roar like that at the child?” “He angered me, the little spitfire,” said the man; “he has got a spirit that nothing will break.” “But he is you, Adrian, he is you—young. He is what you were as a child.” “Faith! I believe you are right, Nance.” “I wish you had not shouted at him,” she continued. “I hated to see him, and yet I loved to see him standing up so bravely under your anger.” “I told you I was a lion,” said Rowton. “You have heard my first thunder. Heaven grant that I may never thunder at you, darling. For the rest, by those who know me well, by those who know me best of all, I am more feared than loved.” “No, no,” she said, “I cannot believe it. That little chap loves you.” “But he said he hated me.” “He hates you for a cause; he wants you to be good all round.” “That I can never be; goodness is mawkish.” “And who is his mother, Adrian, and why, why are you cruel to her?” Rowton grasped Nancy’s wrist again. “Do you really think I am?” he said. “No, I don’t,” she said with white lips, for his grasp was so firm, so fierce, that she could scarcely help wincing at the pain. It relaxed at her words and his features wore a smile. “That is good, little woman,” he said; “if you believe in me, all the rest of the world may think as it pleases.” “But who is the boy’s mother?” “My sister.” “And why did he speak in that strange way about her?” Rowton did not answer for a while. “Nancy,” he said then, “this is our first night at home, is it not?” “Yes,” she said, surprised at his tone. “Now I am not going to say anything harsh.” “No,” she answered, “but I don’t think I much mind if you do.” “Ah! my little woman,” he said, suddenly clasping her to him in a fierce embrace, “I knew you had a spirit of your own: now I am going to remind you of something. Do you remember the compact we made each with the other on the day of your father’s death?” Her face turned very white. “I wish you would not remind me of that,” she said after a pause. “You force me to,” he replied; “the time has come for me to remind you of it, Nancy; I shall not interfere with your secrets if you do not interfere with mine.” “Then you have secrets?” she said again. “Yes, little girl,” he answered—his voice was low—there was shame in the tone.